With the Last of this Day's Sun
by Faeline
Summary: A series of Vignettes chronicles the fall of Wizarding Society, the rise of the Dark, and the resistance. (LMHP, SSHG) V: "Will your loving kindness be declared by your grave or your faithfulness by destruction"
1. Fallen

**Notes:** I started this series of vignettes sometime last spring and have recently dug them up again. My plan is to post one vignette a week, and this should, I hope, give me adequate time to finish the last two vignettes. It's also my hope that by posting this my creative energies will raise and that the sharing of comments, questions, and ideas will spur my Muses and myself to get back on track. Anyway, on with the story. 

* * *

** _ With the Last of This Day's Sun _ **

* * *

_ There is no light to guide me on my long and painful Road _

_ I wait in Silence, I wait for Death with the last of this Day's Sun... _

** **

** **

_ **Fallen ** _

_ And the sun became as black as sackcloth, and the moon became as blood, Rev. 6:12 **** _

Eighteen years after the first downfall herald the day the battle ends, the day the world stands still, the day the Order falls, and the night the Dark takes precedence. 

Noon had seen the blackness of a Solar Eclipse, and when light surged across the land once more, it was to mourn its fallen champions and meet its victorious enemies.

Deep in the Scottish countryside there is a hill, lush and green and blanketed with death and decay; the stench of rot clings to the blades of grass, is picked up by the wind and blown over the horizon, carrying the scent of defeat into neighboring towns. 

The Saviour has fallen. 

This Champion of the weak, the common, the muggle-born, and the Light is hung at the crown of the hill. He is to be executed in antiquated muggle fashion, arms splayed wide across the roughened wood, feet bound together, head resting against the top of the cross. 

Unlike the muggle's Sacrificed God his eyes do not stare heavenward in accusation or reproach, they look straight ahead, into the gaze of the abyss1. 

The red eyed figure in black robes blinks and smiles thinly at the wizened man strung before him. It is a fitting fate, he thinks, for this man to be brought to death through such means. 

"You have lost old man." The words are twisted, coming from a mouth that is neither human nor reptilian; they slither along the night wind, carried on the updraft to the cross. 

The old wizard smiles and the parts of his long white hair not matted with blood and sweat or tears whip around his face. "I have taken nothing which was not given freely in the beginning—therefore, I have lost nothing. Omnia Mea Mecum Porto." He pauses, the pain in his tendons has grown, the toughened sinew is stretched to its limits and there is a growing rattle somewhere deep in his chest. "Will you—be able to say the same?" He coughs and blood spots the roots of his white beard. 

The creature's mouth twists in the mockery of a human smile. 

"A cold answer, considering the blood that has been spilt." He pauses, a long white finger pressed to his mouth. "You might have done well a Slytherin. Pity." A flick of his thin wrist sends a shower of putrescent green and mottled purple light in vicious assault on the old wizard. 

His body seizes, fingers and hands curl tightly, as if seeking to grasp and rip out the nails driven into the space between the bones of his wrists. Tendons rip, tear, and fall away over bone. 

The light dissipates and he sags against the cross, drawing in a shuddering breath. With it come the images of his long tenure in the world, of memorable days both pleasant and terrible, of his life. Of his children. The countless numbers of them who passed beneath his hands to be molded, and protected, and sent out into the world to find their paths. For better or worse. He can recall every one of their faces, each of their names. 

They gave their souls for him. 

He can do no less. 

He smiles and a phrase that he has come back to so often in his long life falls from his cracked and bloodied lips, taken away by the wind. 

He doesn't breath again. 

The moon has risen behind the cross, a shard of silvery bone marred deep red. Blood on the moon. Signature of bad omens, signature of changing tides. It arcs across the silver surface, stains the lunar face. 

The black robed figure moves close to the cross, reaches into some inner pocket on the older wizards robes and extracts something small and round that gleams in the moonlight, reflects the shower of green stars that have just begun to fill the night sky. 

Another twist of his mouth, and the figure disapparates, leaving cross and corpse alone to greet the rising of the night. 

_ to be continued... _

**Omnia mea mecum porto --- All that is mine, I carry with me.

  


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1 "He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

** Friedrich Nietzsche**


	2. Resilience

**Resilience **

_ And the stars of heaven fell onto the earth, _ Rev. 6:13 

* * *

She has been waiting anxiously since dusk fell, since the sounds of defeat pulled her from the comforting enclosure of the castle depths, away from her research, beguiled her to seek higher ground. 

She is in the Tower when he returns, the one that was used for stargazing…and she does gaze at stars. They are poison green against the night, and they shower down on the distant landscape. Their light enables her to see the smoldering remains of the town beyond the iron gates, the crumbled turrets of the castle, the makeshift medical ward that is spread across the grounds. She knows they have been lucky. The magic that surrounds this fortress has been in place for a thousand years and more, and only a few crumbling battlements are testament to the gradual waning of their power. 

She feels his presence before her eyes find him on the stairs. He is dirty, pale with exhaustion and sweat, weary from the burden of a role long played. There are silver strands at his temples. They hadn't been there that morning. 

"Well?" she asks as he joins her and her voice shakes on the wind. She turns to him, holds her hands out, palms upturned. He places his own in hers, palm to palm, long fingers curling about her wrists. He feels some warmth move beneath his flesh at the contact and moves closer. 

"It is over. The Order has fallen." 

A flash in her gaze and she looks again over the grounds, but her eyes don't see the rising smoke, or the figures in the dark, rather they see what lies strewn across villages and towns miles, and minutes, and hours away. 

Had she any tears left they would be falling. 

Instead she can only whisper in a raw voice. "There's no Phoenix left to rise." 

His arms come around her, the warmth of his body a comforting presence at her back and she melds into him as she has so many times before. When he speaks again, she hardly recognizes his voice, dry and brittle, crumbling like the turrets. 

"I shall take my place at V—The Dark Lord's side tomorrow." 

"What?" She tries to turn in his arms but he holds her still. "Sev—" 

"Listen, listen. The dark has won… Those who serve—" 

"Serve? Serve those who did this?" A wild gesture. "How can you say such things…the fires haven't even stopped burning…" 

"Foolish girl," his voice has little bite, "would you have us rush in and get ourselves killed all in the name of righteousness?" She was still. "Martyrdom is _ not _ something to be aspired to, it is something to be railed against." He smoothes her hair. "…Those who serve and serve well will be approvingly looked upon, well taken care of…" 

"Welcomed into the circle." The words are dry as ash in her mouth. 

"Yes." His breath touches the delicate curve of her ear. 

"What about me?" 

"Despite His propaganda, He would not be foolish enough to discard someone of your intelligence…as long as we can prove your loyalty to Him through me…" 

There's a fray in her voice when she speaks again. "There will be declarations asked of us…" 

"I won't lie to you and say there may not come a time when you will be forced to challenge your very nature…" He pauses as her chin falls to her chest. "Survival is the first rule. We do what we must. You know as well as I that we're no good to anyone dead." 

One arm tightens around her waist and the other rises to caress her jaw, her collarbone, moves to lie over the place where her heart rests. He holds her so tightly that she can feel the echoing rhythm of his own heart against her ribs. 

"We will be helping to raise a new world from the debris of the old, and perhaps…we will find your Phoenix among the ashes…" He kisses her temple and together they look out across the shattered remnants of the land. 

Tomorrow they will leave, wade through the survivors that rest on the lawns, and walk through those iron gates into a place where familiarity no longer exists. 

But tonight, they stand in the place that had been home to both of them, when she was still innocent and he had much less to lose, and they watch as the green stars burn along the horizon. 

* * *

_ to be continued... _


	3. Isolation

**Notes: **Reviews and comments are most welcome. Please feel free to leave constructive criticism. I already have the major body of this work written out, so, if any editing takes place it will be after the entire series is posted and when I've found the time to make adjustments. I've had some comments on the short nature and flow of the series, I assure you, I realize how it's written. It's supposed to be that way. I didn't want a full blown epic. I wanted slices. 

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**Isolation **

_ Broken wings, blood freed upon the air, a trampled marriage bed _ . 

* * *

His eyes follow the curls and tendrils in the deep, dark wood, carved by some craftsmen long ago. Sometimes he reaches a hand up to them. 

Does he remember a time before these patterns? 

Yes. 

He closes his eyes. 

But it is slightly hazy and best not dredged up. He fears the memory might break whatever it is that remains inside him, whatever it is that keeps him breathing; keeps him sane. He doesn't need the loneliness that comes from remembering. He doesn't need that carnivorous shadow in his brain. 

He ignores the gentle swaying of the mattress, the movements of the svelte body rising over him. His eyes stay on the patterns. Pale hair touches his chest, his face, a faint caress, like spider silk. 

The session tonight has not been rough by any means. No, it has been almost…he hesitates over the word…tender. Gentle. 

  
Lucius Malfoy had returned to the manor much sooner then expected, smelling strongly of the night and of other people's blood. There had been the faintest traces of red on his fine robes, on the white cuffs of his shirt, in the lines that outlined the future on his hands. 

He had refused to touch Harry until he was clean. 

He'd called for a bath and beckoned Harry to follow, which he did without reserve, remembering the last time he'd hesitated on an order…the blinding light, the pain that rushed through his veins so hot that he was sure the tender vessels must have been charred, and then there was flesh on flesh, and blood, and a bright wet hurt blossoming. 

He shudders at the memory and a hand caresses his hip. 

In the bathroom he had selected an array of soaps and oils that Lucius favored and waited until the older wizard had lowered himself into the bath before removing his own clothing, approaching, and reaching deftly for the soft cloth lying on the porcelain. 

It had become a ritual of sorts, tending to the other man in the bath. Lucius had insisted on it; a way for Harry to learn the older man's body. And he found, that so long as he was occupied with the task of washing, he could map the regions of the other man's skin, find which sensitive areas responded to what stimuli. All under the veil of an innocent action. 

Sometimes, if he were particularly adroit about his practice, he would be freed from sharing the other's bed for the evening. 

But not tonight. 

Tonight, Lucius had pulled him into the bath as soon as the red tinged water had been cleared and replaced with fresh. Slick, soapy hands had flowed over his abdomen, gripped his hips and brought him down hard on the erection bobbing beneath the water. Then the movements had started. The agonizingly slow movements, the ones that demanded he recognize the pleasure forced on him. The ones that brought him to a fevered pitch, rendered the logical portions of his brain useless, until all he could do was claw, and bite, and moan like some vacuous animal until his climax released him. 

Once out of the water he was not dismissed. Lucius bade him follow to the master chambers without a word. 

So here he lies, once more subjected to a leisurely fuck, the cruelty of elegant hands caressing him. Unable to blink his mind out, to pretend that it is not happening. That he doesn't want it to happen. The waves ride him, the surf rolls his mind, and he screams his release into the other man's mouth, which tastes clean and faintly spicy; and Lucius reaches his own climax, thrusts more deeply into him, releasing a torrent of heat. 

The older man falls over him like a blanket, his long hair tickling Harry's nose and sides, before he withdraws and rises from the bed, impious and unabashed, in the pale silver and green light that shines through the window. 

Harry rises as Lucius offers his hand, feels the cooling essence of his lover slip down his thighs, his own on his flanks. 

He is pulled to the window; a strong hand on his chin proffers him to look to the east where the moon has risen bloody silver, and where venomous green stars stain the fabric of the night. 

It can mean only one thing. 

Harry's eyes close. 

"Yes. Your fool headmaster has fallen, and the Order lies in chaos without him." The voice is silky as the hair that caresses his shoulders. "Foolish of your comrades to die over such creatures," Lucius says softly as he watches the lights. His gaze turns back to Harry. "I am glad I caught you before the war did, it would have been a shame for your innocence to be soiled by something so prosaic." 

  
Those petal soft lips are against his skin, and he says nothing as he is pushed against the window frame, as Lucius envelopes him from behind. He says nothing as he is taken again, this time amidst a silver and green inferno. 

  
He lays his brow against the glass and feels something slide deep inside his head, moving with every green ember, with every thrust. Whatever _ it _ is dissolves and lets loose a long stemmed flow. 

He sees turrets and iron gates. He sees a hut, a large boarhound sitting guard at its door. He sees Ron's self-conscious smile, Hermione's no nonsense stance. He sees Colin, camera flashing. Neville and Trevor asleep over a potions text in the common room. He sees them all. Cho—McGonagall—Flitwick—Lavender—Cedric—Dumbledore… A whirlpool of faces and long unspoken names; an ocean of memories so deep he could drown. 

He is drowning. 

His hands are splayed against the panes in a plea; others cover them. 

The dam has broken. 

He can't see. 

He can't breath. 

Rain drops slip down the inside of the glass. 

He doesn't recognize them as his own tears. 

* * *

_ to be continued... _


	4. Resistance

**Resistance **

_I am shocked and I seethe  
__I don't want to believe  
__No More  
__No More  
__No More! _

* * *

He drops a coin into the wishing fountain as he passes, melting into the crowd. He has perfected the art within the past year, and can move through untouched, unseen, his head down, vivid hair dulled by muggle dyes rather then magic. He needs no disguise for his face; time and small wars have brought maturity, hardened some of the softer lines.

He seats himself on the fountain, just another nameless face out for a stroll among the elite.

He watches the children at the river's edge, surprised that they still play here. Their parents shoo them away from the water and they rush up the still warm banks, laughing and shrieking. He smiles and it feels strange, the tightening of muscles across his mouth.

Turning back to the throng of well dressed people, he watches them making their way to the grandiose Hall across the street from the fountain. They glitter like jewels in the last rays of sunlight coming over the water.

It is sunset. Dusk. A flash of reflected sunlight comes from an alley corner and he acknowledges it with a scratch of his head. Time. They had received word from a resistance corps in the heart of the high society arena, and decided a small reconnaissance team would be best before commitment.

Itching, on the back of his neck, where the fine hairs are standing straight in alarm. Someone is watching. Someone's eyes are on him.

He raises his arms above his head in a long stretch, knowing George will see it from his point on the roof of the building left of the Hall.

Eyes narrowed, he searches for the source of the itch and meets a gaze that he hasn't seen since before the night of the blood moon.

Her eyes are still deep brown, and her hair still a wild mass, but sleeker than it once was. She is pale, and glowing, and perfect, and on the arm of a tall man in black. He recognizes her companion. His features are harsh, his skin pale, the only change in him appears to be the silver slivers that shimmer in and out of his long hair.

He looks for Hermione's gaze again, but she has given her attention to someone he can't see; there's a flicker in Snape's eyes and he nods very slightly.

A tug on the sleeve of his shirt. A voice in a hissed whisper.

"Mr. Wheezy."

Eyes like tennis balls, a tea cozy for a hat…a maroon sweater now made up of more patches than original cloth.

"_Dobby? _"

The elf flashes a smile that disappears almost instantly as he glances around him. "Mrs. Snape is sending you this letter; she is telling Dobby to deliver it quick and return to the Manor. Here, here." He shoves a piece of parchment into Ron's hand and with a pop is gone.

A quick glance up reveals that the mass of people has moved inside the hall, only a few latecomers are left to straggle up the steps.

He spares a surreptitious glance, unfolds the parchment between his knees. He knows the writing.

_Meet me tomorrow, 8 a.m. Abaddon Square Street Market _.(1)

He folds the note, slips it into his inner jacket pocket, pauses to pull out a cigarette and match. Standing he curls his hand around the flame, flicks the burnt out twig into the fountain and walks past the alley the light had come from earlier. He hears Fred scuttling off into the darkness, and knows George won't be far behind.

Back in the anonymity of their headquarters he shows the note to the others, relays his plans.

"You're crazy—" This from George.

"Absolutely fuckin' barmy." From Fred.

He grits his teeth. "Hermione would never—and you know that."

"You saw her with your own eyes, Ron—entering the snake pit—on Snape's arm no less."

"I can't believe you George—"

"Fred."

"What?"

A sigh. "I'm Fred, _he's _George." He points across the partition to the twin who waggles his fingers in a wave. Ron's brows knit together.

"Who _cares _? Look, I'm going to the Square tomorrow. Alone. Ah—" he cuts off Fred's unspoken tirade with a slash of his hand, "I _know _Hermione…she's got a reason…" He makes eye contact with both of his brothers before leaving the room.

"Think he's still in love with her, then?" George asks, eliciting a snort from Fred.

"Think Snape enjoyed making us clean bat shit out of the Potion's room second year?" 

* * *

1 Abaddon: A medieval synonym for Hell/ruler thereof. 

_to be continued... _


	5. Convalescence

**AN:** I think there are...two more sections after this one. (Possibly three.) I haven't yet written them (fully) and I don't have my notes at hand. I will try to get them posted in the next few months, but I can't make any firm promises. Despite this story being made up of short ambiguous scenes, it's been rather difficult. At any rate, hope you enjoy.

**_

* * *

Convalescence _**

_City of Sores  
__Give me your tired and your wicked  
__Give me your dollar whores  
__Down on the Boulevard, children are sold to  
__Pave the way  
__For your streets of gold _

Further down the river, far from the beautiful architecture and pleasant scenery of the bourgeoisie, there is a place where the façade drops away. Where the rotten core of the town is revealed.

He arrives early in the morning, some time before he is set to meet with Hermione, and spends the time wondering among the people in the market square. Some have come to buy perishable items, vegetables and fruits, sprigs of parsley and rosemary. Others have come for the human wares.

Ron passes by the center of the square where a permanent dais sits displaying muggle born wizards and witches. They are young, early teens most of them, some slightly older, some younger. And they can be bought for the right price…for any purpose.

He turns his face as he passes, unable to meet the gaze of a small pale girl with red hair.

He can do nothing for them. They are not what he is here for. Not today.

There is a small side street that offers a fair view of the square's center and he slips into it, grateful for the coolness of its shade. He kneels by a riotous mass of snowdrops that have begun to climb along the alley wall. His eyes close and he breathes in the fresh scent of them, the heavy mud smell of the river.

A glint of gold catches his eye when he opens them again, and he pushes back several bulbs to reveal a small plaque, bearing the inscription:

_**Will your loving kindness be declared by your grave or your faithfulness by destruction? **_

He frowns down at the plaque, turns away when he hears his name whispered.

She stands behind him, a dark cloak about her shoulders, hood pushing her curls around her face, framing her paleness.

"Mione…" He grasps her hand as she gives a small smile.

"Let's walk."

They walk with the river, the sun, the wind, and the market at their backs.

"You're part of the resistance corps?"

She nods.

"How did you know I would be there?"

"I didn't…but I had counted on someone from your group to come examine the area fairly soon…and then I saw you, and..."

"Dobby's a part of the group, I take it."

Her face lights in a smile. "He's helped with quite a lot." A pause, and she takes a breath. "Ron, there's something—"

He's taken up her hand again without truly realizing it, her left, where a ring sparkles on the third finger. He stares at the stone for a moment, watching the light skitter through the cut emeralds.

"That last Christmas, wasn't it? When you didn't come to the burrow with me and—Harry…"

She blinks and barely nods.

He runs his thumb across the ring then meets her eyes with a small smile. "Whatever gives you happiness, Mione."

She smiles and squeezes his hand before her face turns somber once more. "There's something you have to know, Ron. Harry—he's alive."

It feels like someone has just wiped down his face with an ice-cold cloth, but before he can utter even a single question she is speaking again.

"Lucius Malfoy has him…it seems—he has from the beginning."

"Goddamn, I knew it." He kicks a clod of lose soil into the water. "And that idiot Fudge…Malfoy's lapdog from the start." He turns back to her. "How did you find out? Was it Harry—did he contact you?"

She shakes her head. "Dobby…worked for the family for years, he knows the homes inside and out—and…" Here she seems to choke. "Ron…what he saw…" She shakes her head, sending a single pearlescent tear falling to the ground.

"We're not leaving him."

Again she shakes her head. "No. We have arrangements to meet with others across the towns, and…if you will all commit?" He nods. "We know where there main residence is…and we know that," she lowers her voice until it's a bare whisper, "Voldemort is often seen there, as well."

"Good." His eyes narrow. "Two snakes with one stone."


End file.
